Revelations
by BlackDevilVixen
Summary: Harry James Potter, stuck with the Dursleys since the age of one. Struck by the need to survive, Harry learns how to control his magic before he attends Hogwarts. What happens afterwards? xxxx Intelligent!Harry, Powerful!Harry, Slytherin!Harry. Dumbles! Bashing and slight Weasley!Bashing. Though the twins will not be bashed. HarryxOC, BlaisexDaphne, DracoxLuna


**A/N: Hello to all my beloved readers, I am starting on my first Harry Potter fanfic! So please support me :)**

**I recently read many stories about Harry being powerful, a Slytherin, etc. So if you guys see any aspects of my story being similar to any other stories, credit goes to the respective author! You could call this a collage of sorts. This will be an Intelligent!Harry, Powerful!Harry, and Slytherin!Harry. If it seems too Mary-Sue, please inform me and I shall edit Harry's personality. Obviously, Harry will definitely be AU. Harry will probably be Grey, with hints of Dark... **

**Any pairing suggestions...?**

**Available options are as followed:**

**HarryxOC**

**HarryxDaphne**

**HarryxCho**

**HarryxTheodore Nott (Yes, I am fine with a ****little**** Slash...)**

**HarryxHermione**

**Or no pairing at all?**

**Warnings: Some expletives**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, I only own any OC, I may or may not create.**

**Thank you. Enjoy!**

_31 October 1981..._

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.

Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did have a very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbors. The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere.

The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, but they hadn't met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn't have a sister, because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be.

The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in the street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small son, too, but they had never even seen him. This boy was another good reason for keeping the Potters away; they didn't want Dudley mixing with a child like that.

When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for work, and Mrs. Dursley gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair.

None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window. At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed, because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls. "Little tyke," chortled Mr. Dursley as he left the house. He got into his car and backed out of number four's drive.

It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something peculiar - a cat reading a map. For a second, Mr. Dursley didn't realize what he had seen - then he jerked his head around to look again. There was a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn't a map in sight.

What could he have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of the light. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back. As Mr. Dursley drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive - no, looking at the sign; cats couldn't read maps or signs.

Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove toward town he thought of nothing except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day.

But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his mind by something else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn't help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about. People in cloaks. Mr. Dursley couldn't bear people who dressed in funny clothes - the getups you saw on young people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdos standing quite close by.

They were whispering excitedly together. Mr. Dursley was enraged to see that a couple of them weren't young at all; why, that man had to be older than he was, and wearing an emerald-green cloak! The nerve of him! But then it struck Mr. Dursley that this was probably some silly stunt - these people were obviously collecting for something...yes, that would be it.

The traffic moved on and a few minutes later, Mr. Dursley arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on drills. Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor. If he hadn't, he might have found it harder to concentrate on drills that morning. He didn't see the owls swooping past in broad daylight, though people down in the street did; they pointed and gazed open- mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead.

Most of them had never seen an owl even at nighttime. Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at five different people. He made several important telephone calls and shouted a bit more. He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when he thought he'd stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun from the bakery.

He'd forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of them next to the baker's. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn't know why, but they made him uneasy. This bunch were whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn't see a single collecting tin.

It was on his way back past them, clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they were saying.

"The Potters, that's right, that's what I heard yes, their son, Harry"

Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it. He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone, and had almost finished dialing his home number when he changed his mind. He put the receiver back down and stroked his mustache, thinking... no, he was being stupid. Potter wasn't such an unusual name.

He was sure there were lots of people called Potter who had a son called Harry. Come to think of it, he wasn't even sure his nephew was called Harry. He'd never even seen the boy. It might have been Harvey. Or Harold. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she always got so upset at any mention of her sister. He didn't blame her - if he'd had a sister like that... but all the same, those people in cloaks...

He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon and when he left the building at five o'clock, he was still so worried that he walked straight into someone just outside the door.

"Sorry," he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Mr. Dursley realized that the man was wearing a violet cloak. He didn't seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground. On the contrary, his face split into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice that made passersby stare, "Don't be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating, this happy, happy day!"

And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and walked off. Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He was rattled. He hurried to his car and set off for home, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn't approve of imagination.

As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw - and it didn't improve his mood - was the tabby cat he'd spotted that morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the same one; it had the same markings around its eyes.

"Shoo!" said Mr. Dursley loudly. The cat didn't move. It just gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat behavior? Mr. Dursley wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife.

Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all about Mrs. Next Door's problems with her daughter and how Dudley had learned a new word ("Won't!"). Mr. Dursley tried to act normally. When Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the living room in time to catch the last report on the evening news:

"And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation's owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern." The newscaster allowed himself a grin.

"Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?"

"Well, Ted," said the weatherman, "I don't know about that, but it's not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they've had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early - it's

not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight."

Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place? And a whisper, a whisper about the Potters...

Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of tea. It was no good. He'd have to say something to her. He cleared his throat nervously. "Er - Petunia, dear - you haven't heard from your sister lately, have you?"

As he had expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and angry. After all, they normally pretended she didn't have a sister.

"No," she said sharply. "Why?"

"Funny stuff on the news," Mr. Dursley mumbled. "Owls... shooting stars... and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today..."

"So?" snapped Mrs. Dursley.

"Well, I just thought... maybe... it was something to do with... you know... her crowd."

Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr. Dursley wondered whether he dared tell her he'd heard the name "Potter." He decided he didn't dare. Instead he said, as casually as he could, "Their son - he'd be about Dudley's age now, wouldn't he?"

"I suppose so," said Mrs. Dursley stiffly.

"What's his name again? Howard, isn't it?"

"Harry. Nasty, common name, if you ask me."

"Oh, yes," said Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking horribly. "Yes, I quite agree."

He didn't say another word on the subject as they went upstairs to bed. While Mrs. Dursley was in the bathroom, Mr. Dursley crept to the bedroom window and peered down into the front garden. The cat was still there.

It was staring down Privet Drive as though it were waiting for something.

Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with the Potters? If it did... if it got out that they were related to a pair of - well, he didn't think he could bear it.

The Dursleys got into bed. Mrs. Dursley fell asleep quickly but Mr. Dursley lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comforting thought before he fell asleep was that even if the Potters were involved, there was no reason for them to come near him and Mrs. Dursley. The Potters knew very well what he and Petunia thought about them and their kind... He couldn't see how he and Petunia could get mixed up in anything that might be going on. He yawned and turned over it couldn't affect them...

How very wrong he was.

Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the cat on the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive. It didn't so much as quiver when a car door slammed on the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all.

A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you'd have thought he'd just popped out of the ground. The cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed. Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots.

His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realize that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to realize he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still staring at him from the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him.

He chuckled and muttered, "I should have known."

He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. He clicked it again - the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer, until the only lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching him.

If anyone looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed Mrs. Dursley, they wouldn't be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back inside his cloak and set off down the street toward number four, where he sat down on the wall next to the cat. He didn't look at it, but after a moment he spoke to it.

"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall."

He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead he was smiling at a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked distinctly ruffled.

"How did you know it was me?" she asked.

"My dear Professor, I 've never seen a cat sit so stiffly."

"You'd be stiff if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day," said Professor McGonagall.

"All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here."

Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.

"Oh yes, everyone's celebrating, all right," she said impatiently.

"You'd think they'd be a bit more careful, but no - even the Muggles have noticed something's going on. It was on their news." She jerked her head back at the Dursleys' dark living-room window. "I heard it. Flocks of owls... shooting stars... Well, they're not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent - I'll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense."

"You can't blame them," said Dumbledore gently. "We've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years."

"I know that," said Professor McGonagall irritably. "But that's no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumors."

She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though hoping he was going to tell her something, but he didn't, so she went on. "A fine thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really has gone, Dumbledore?"

"It certainly seems so," said Dumbledore. "We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a lemon drop?"

"A what?"

"A lemon drop. They're a kind of Muggle sweet I'm rather fond of"

"No, thank you," said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn't think this was the moment for lemon drops. "As I say, even if You-Know-Who has gone -"

"My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this 'You- Know-Who' nonsense - for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort." Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was unsticking two lemon drops, seemed not to notice. "It all gets so confusing if we keep saying 'You-Know-Who.' I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort's name.

"I know you haven 't, said Professor McGonagall, sounding half exasperated, half admiring. "But you're different. Everyone knows you're the only one You-Know- oh, all right, Voldemort, was frightened of."

"You flatter me," said Dumbledore calmly. "Voldemort had powers I will never have."

"Only because you're too - well - noble to use them."

"It's lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs."

Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said, "The owls are nothing next to the rumors that are flying around. You know what everyone's saying? About why he's disappeared? About what finally stopped him?"

It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was most anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all day, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that whatever "everyone" was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true.

Dumbledore, however, was choosing another lemon drop and did not answer.

"What they're saying," she pressed on, "is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric's Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumor is that Lily and James Potter are - are - that they're - dead. "

Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped.

"Lily and James... I can't believe it... I didn't want to believe it... Oh, Albus..."

Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. "I know... I know..." he said heavily.

Professor McGonagall's voice trembled as she went on. "That's not all. They're saying he tried to kill the Potter's son, Harry. But - he couldn't. He couldn't kill that little boy. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill Harry Potter, Voldemort's power somehow broke - and that's why he's gone.

Dumbledore nodded glumly.

"It's - it's true?" faltered Professor McGonagall. "After all he's done... all the people he's killed... he couldn't kill a little boy? It's just astounding... of all the things to stop him... but how in the name of heaven did Harry survive?"

"We can only guess," said Dumbledore. "We may never know."

Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little planets were moving around the edge. It must have made sense to Dumbledore, though, because he put it back in his pocket and said, "Hagrid's late. I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here, by the way?"

"Yes," said Professor McGonagall. "And I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you're here, of all places?"

"I've come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle. They're the only family

he has left now."

"You don't mean - you can't mean the people who live here?" cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to her feet and pointing at number four.

"Dumbledore - you can't. I've been watching them all day. You couldn't find two people who are less like us. And they've got this son - I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Harry Potter come and live here!"

"It's the best place for him," said Dumbledore firmly. "His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he's older. I've written them a letter."

"A letter?" repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on the wall. "Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand him! He'll be famous - a legend - I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Harry Potter day in the future - there will be books written about Harry - every child in our world will know his name!"

"Exactly," said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of his half-moon glasses. "It would be enough to turn any boy's head. Famous before he can walk and talk! Famous for something he won't even remember! Can't you see how much better off he'll be, growing up away from all that until he's ready to take it?"

Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed, and then said, "Yes - yes, you're right, of course. But how is the boy getting here, Dumbledore?" She eyed his cloak suddenly as though she thought he might be hiding Harry underneath it.

"Hagrid's bringing him."

"You think it - wise - to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?"

"I would trust Hagrid with my life," said Dumbledore.

"I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place," said Professor McGonagall grudgingly, "but you can't pretend he's not careless. He does tend to - what was that?"

A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky - and a huge motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.

If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so wild - long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins. In his vast, muscular arms he was holding a bundle of blankets.

"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. "At last. And where did you get that motorcycle?"

"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sit," said the giant, climbing carefully off the motorcycle as he spoke. "Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I've got him, sir."

"No problems, were there?"

"No, sir - house was almost destroyed, but I got him out all right before the Muggles started swarmin' around. He fell asleep as we was flyin' over Bristol."

Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.

"Is that where -?" whispered Professor McGonagall.

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "He'll have that scar forever."

"Couldn't you do something about it, Dumbledore?"

"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well - give him here, Hagrid - we'd better get this over with."

Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys' house.

"Could I - could I say good-bye to him, sir?" asked Hagrid. He bent his great, shaggy head over Harry and gave him what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog.

"Shhh!" hissed Professor McGonagall, "you'll wake the Muggles!"

"S-s-sorry," sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief and burying his face in it. "But I c-c-can't stand it - Lily an' James dead - an' poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles -"

"Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we'll be found," Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He laid Harry gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Harry's blankets, and then came back to the other two.

For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid's shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore's eyes seemed to have gone out.

"Well," said Dumbledore finally, "that's that. We've no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations."

"Yeah," said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, "I'll be takin' Sirius his bike back. G'night, Professor McGonagall - Professor Dumbledore, sir."

Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with a roar it rose into the air and off into the night.

"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall," said Dumbledore, nodding to her. Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply.

Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once, and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.

"Good luck, Harry," he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone.

A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. Harry Potter rolled over inside his blankets without waking up.

One small hand closed on the letter beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours' time by Mrs. Dursley's scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin Dudley...

He couldn't know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: "To Harry Potter - the boy who lived!"

_30 July 1985..._

A scrawny boy with messy raven locks, bright emerald green eyes, wearing broken glasses, with an unique lightning bolt scar on his forehead, stood on a high stool frying some bacon. He wore clothes three sizes too big for him that could barely be passed off as rags.

His aunt, a woman that had a vague resemblance to a horse sat on a chair behind him reading a magazine while occasionally glancing up to look at Harry.

"MOM! I'M HUNGRY! I WANT BREAKFAST!" a loud voice rang from the top of the stairs.

"Of course, Duddykins!" was the answer from Aunt Petunia.

_Here comes the mini-whale... _Harry thought as he sped up his cooking.

Loud footsteps came thudding down the stairs, as an obese boy came running, or waddling, as Harry liked to call it, into the kitchen.

"Good morning, my dear Duddy!" Aunt Petunia smiled lovingly at Dudley, who barely gave a nod in response, before turning an icy glare at Harry.

WHACK!

Harry was whacked on his right arm by Aunt Petunia, with her magazine rolled up, "Hurry up, boy! My precious Dudley is hungry!"

"Yes, Aunt Petunia," Harry replied politely.

As Harry carefully piled a huge amount of bacon and toast on a plate, Dudley started whining about how hungry he was, causing Aunt Petunia to try and comfort him. Dudley's wails stopped as soon as the food was placed in front of him.

"Boy, next time be on time for breakfast, my Duddykins needs his food. He's a growing boy, right?" Aunt Petunia snapped angrily, after which she gazed fondly at Dudley, who barely managed to mumble out a "Yes, " through all the food stuffed in his mouth.

Louder footsteps than the one before thundered down the stairs. A horizontally large man came into view as he stepped into the kitchen.

_Ah... The whale..._

"How's my little Dudders this morning?" Uncle Vernon boomed.

He walked over to Aunt Petunia and pecked her on the cheek, causing Harry to belch inwardly.

Dudley barely gave a glance to his father as he focused on gobbling up his food.

"Ah... Breakfast, the most important meal of the day! I bet Dudley knows that, the little tyke!" Uncle Vernon exclaimed.

Another plate full of bacon and toast was placed in front of Uncle Vernon, who began eating just as eagerly as Dudley. Only Aunt Petunia ate what a normal person would call the regular amount of breakfast.

Harry's pitiful breakfast consisted of some burnt toast and a miniscule piece of bacon. Harry quickly gobbled it up, lest Dudley took it from him, like he did a few days before.

"BOY, today you shall start going to school with Dudley. I don't want no trouble from you. Understand?" Uncle Vernon said, gruffly.

"DAD! BUT I DON'T WANT TO GO TO SCHOOL WITH HARRY!" fake tears started to appear on Dudley's pudgy face.

"I'm sorry, Dudders, but we have to send that _boy _to school as well, as much as we would like not to, " Uncle Vernon explained to Dudley, while sneering in Harry's direction.

Dudley continued to whine, which resulted in Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon agreeing to buy him a new toy to make up for it.

Harry was secretly happy to finally be able to go to school, even though it was with Dudley. It didn't matter. He was going to school! He would finally be able to access more books than just the books that Dudley threw aside.

_31 July 1985..._

Harry watched as a huge chocolate cake was sliced into nine big pieces, four of which went to his uncle and cousin, Dudley, each. How he wished he could have even a tiny bite of that cake... It was his birthday... And Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had forgotten...as usual...

Suddenly, a slice of the cake started floating towards Harry, much to the astonishment of the three Dursleys, and himself.

"STOP THAT FREAKISHNESS THIS INSTANT, BOY!" shouted Uncle Vernon, his face turning purple.

The slice of chocolate cake immediately dropped to the ground mid-flight, Dudley rushing to pick it up and stuff it greedily into his mouth. Uncle Vernon looked as if he was going to burst into smoke.

As punishment for that show of 'freakishness', Uncle Vernon belted Harry, claiming to give him 'What you deserve, you lazy, good for nothing freak!' His aunt just stood by, watching, doing nothing while his cousin was engrossed in his nightly television series. Harry had been labelled a freak for as long as he could remember.

_Why... Why do Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon hate me so much...? _Harry thought, as he lay on the old worn mattress inside his cupboard under the stairs. He turned slightly, and groaned in agony as the welts on his back caused him to feel pain every time he tried to moved.

Harry tried to get up and failed miserably. The bottle of ointment Aunt Petunia had provided him the previous month when the neighbors started gossiping about the bruises on his arms was on the small, worn table on the other side of his cupboard. Harry willed himself to reach for the bottle.

To his shock, the bottle of ointment started floating to him. Startled, Harry yelped, causing the ointment fell mid-flight. After getting over the shock of the bottle floating, Harry decided to try that '_weird floaty thingy_' as he called it, again.

Harry focused as hard as he could, and slowly, the bottle started floating unsteadily towards him. Harry concentrated on controlling the movement of the bottle. Finally, the bottle dropped into Harry's lap. He realised that he was extremely exhausted, as if he'd just finished a game of Harry Hunting.

He remembered from one of the kungfu shows that Dudley always watched, the master always said to meditate so as to be able to focus better. Harry tried to meditate, but kept getting distracted by the fly that kept flying around his ear. Argh, how had the warriors in the kungfu movies done it so easily? They made it seem like a piece of cake... He would have to practice it as often as he could control his newfound 'powers'.

Harry tried it again.

Bzz...

Bzz...

Harry threw his sock at the fly.

_7 August 1985..._

Harry had been able to successfully meditate after practicing for three days in the privacy of his cupboard, after the Dursleys had gone to sleep. He had then started practicing the summoning-slash-levitation skill; he learnt the proper word for it after looking it up in the school library; and had just managed to perfect it.

Harry was now able to levitate or summon any object in his cupboard, including levitating his worn mattress with him on it; it had taken him an hour just to do that, and he had felt exhausted after that; easily. But now, he barely felt any fatigue after doing so anymore.

After perfecting his 'power', Harry decided that he wanted to try out his newly discovered power. Healing.

Just that day, Dudley had pushed him down the stairs, causing him to end up with a nasty bruise on his leg. He had applied the ointment on it, but it still hurt. He had hoped that it would heal faster, and suddenly, a faint green glow surrounded the bruise and the bruise started healing, the black mark faded, as if it hadn't been there in the first place. Harry had been shocked, but had chocked it up to his new abilities.

Harry pulled out a small knife that he had nicked from the kitchen when Aunt Petunia wasn't looking and slashed his palm across with it. A trickle of red blood oozed from the shallow cut. Harry focused and tried to call forth the same feeling he had felt that day when he healed his bruise.

After a few seconds, Harry felt a strange soothing feeling wash over him, and it pooled around his palm. The green glow appeared again, only less faint, on his palm. It seemed the more serious the injury, the brighter the glow. Slowly, the cut knit itself back together, as if his skin was melding back together. And the cut was gone. Only leaving the blood as reminder of the cut that had once been there.

Harry stared in awe at his palm. The green glow vanished along with the soothing feeling. Harry repeated the process over and over again, gasping in astonishment as the healing process got faster and faster.

Harry giggled **(A/N: He's five, he gets to giggle like a girl. ), **at his new ability. Life was going to be so much better with his new abilities...though he hadn't expected the familiar wave of exhaustion again...

_15 February 1990..._

Harry grinned as he watched Dudley and his gang run around like headless chickens, from the roof of the school building, as they searched for him. He remembered the day he found

_Flashback Start_

_Harry was running from Dudley and his gang in a usual game of Harry Hunting. He ran as fast as he could, ducking into the side of a building, only to find that it was a dead end. Oh shit... Harry shut his eyes and wished as hard as he could to be anywhere but where he was. He heard the pounding footsteps of Dudley and his gang come closer. POP! Suddenly, he heard Dudley ask Piers Polkiss, his best friend, "Where'd he go?"_

_Harry tentatively opened one eye, and soon realised he was no longer on the ground, he was on the rooftop of the building Dudley and his gang were beside. Harry grinned in realisation as he thought of what he could do with his new power..._

_Flashback End _

Since then, Harry had taken to keeping a small stash of food on the rooftop of the school building, in a deserted corner, where no one ever went. Not that many people actually visited the rooftop. Once recess started, Harry would teleport, or as he called it, '_fading'_, **(A/N: Credit for the term 'fading' goes to author of The Thief Of Hogwarts. It's a good read, but sadly, I think it's on hiatus...) **to the rooftop, where he would spend his time reading the newest book he'd acquired from the library.

Harry gave a malicious smirk as he remembered how, four years ago, he had 'convinced' Aunt Petunia to allow him to go to the public library. He'd made her float three feet in the air. Scared and threatened, Aunt Petunia had hastily agreed to allowing Harry go to the library after he'd made lunch, as long as he returned in time to cook dinner for them. Uncle Vernon had not been happy at first, but one harmless little levitation later, he had been oh too willing to get Harry out of the house for a couple of hours each day.

Since then, he'd been regularly visiting the library. He had become interested in learning languages, and after months of diligent self-study, he could now speak both French and Italian fluently. A plus was that he now got along extremely well with the elderly French librarian who had previously thought he was a ill-behaved boy thanks to the rumours his _dear _aunt spread about him.

Harry had also learnt about how to lead a healthy lifestyle from one of the many books in the library. He definitely did not want to turn out like the Dursley men, all fat and no muscle. He'd constructed an exercise schedule for himself; as shown

_**Weekdays**_

_5.00am. - Wake up and get ready_

_5.15am. - Jog in the park_

_6.00am. - Go to gymnasium and work out_

_6.45am. - Return home to shower_

_7.00am. - Prepare breakfast _

_7.30am. - Breakfast _

_7.45am. - Go to school_

_10.30am. - Recess_

_1.00pm. - Go home_

_1.15pm. - Make lunch_

_1.30pm. - Lunch_

_1.45pm. - Head to library_

_6.15pm. - Head home_

_6.30pm. - Make dinner_

_7.00pm. - Dinner_

_7.15pm. - Go back to cupboard to train 'abilities'_

_9.00pm. - Nighttime workout_

_10.00pm. - Sleep_

_**Weekdays**_

_5.00am. - Wake up and get ready_

_5.15am. - Jog in the park_

_6.30am. - Go to gymnasium and work out_

_7.45am. - Return home to shower_

_8.00am. - Prepare breakfast _

_8.15am. - Breakfast _

_8.30am. - Chores_

_11.30pm. - Make lunch_

_12.00pm. - Lunch_

_12.30pm. - Head to library_

_3.30pm. - Run errands_

_4.30pm. - Go to gymnasium to workout_

_6.15pm. - Shower_

_6.30pm. - Head home_

_6.45pm. - Prepare dinner_

_7.15pm. - Dinner_

_7.30pm. - Go back to cupboard to train 'abilities'_

_9.00pm. - Nighttime workout_

_10.00pm. - Sleep_

Harry had attained a membership at the local gym, by doing errands for people who didn't mind his reputation as a 'hooligan'. _That_ had been rectified, when his 'employers' realised he was actually a polite little boy who completed any job he was given quickly and efficiently. He had used that money to pay for his membership at the gym and also for food.

His aunt and uncle had tried to starve him by either giving him the minimum amount of food needed to survive, or not giving him any at all. Most of the time, Dudley just stole it from him. What they didn't know was that Harry cooked a separate meal for himself and ate it before the Dursleys had dinner. He used his money to buy food that was healthy and gave him enough energy.

Harry, who had previously been a measly 3"9ft, after four years of intense working out, had grown into a tall 5ft, which was taller than average for most his age. He had developed a lean but slightly muscular frame. He didn't want to end up looking like some muscle-builder.

He also didn't wear the broken round glasses from before, he had channeled his 'healing' powers to his eyes a few years ago, curious to whether it would work on his miserable eyesight, and it did. Harry was now able to see perfectly. He was extremely glad that he did not have to look like a dork. His ebony-coloured hair, which had been untamable when he was younger, was now much smoother, and fell to above his shoulders in a slightly messy style while his fringe was just an inch or two shorter. His emerald eyes were as vibrant as always

Harry had also discovered another new power; the ability to speak to snakes. He had been mowing the lawn a few months prior, and had suddenly heard a strange, raspy voice coming from a small garden snake saying, _**"Foolissssh humanssss, that over sized hatchling seemssss to be throwing a tantrum..."**_

Harry had unknowingly responded, _**"Yeah, I know. He's my cousin."**_

The snake reared its head back in shock, _**"You are a sssspeaker, young hatchling?"**_

_**"It seems so, " **_

Harry, after discovering his new ability, had often looked out for snakes in the garden, warning them not to get to close lest they be seen by another human.

Just then, a shrill bell rang. Harry sighed, faded to the ground floor and made his way back to class. It was time for history. Harry was far ahead of his class, as he had read ahead in the library. He found history fascinating. It was too bad that the teachers didn't exactly cover all the details...

_23 June 1991..._

The table was almost hidden beneath all Dudley's birthday presents. It looked as though Dudley had gotten the new computer he wanted, not to mention the second television and the racing bike.

Uncle Vernon entered the kitchen as Harry was turning over the bacon. Harry was frying eggs by the time Dudley arrived in the kitchen with his mother. Harry put the plates of egg and bacon on the table, which was difficult as there wasn't much room. Dudley, meanwhile, was counting his presents.

His face fell.

"Thirty-six," he said, looking up at his mother and father. "That's two less than last year."

"Darling, you haven't counted Auntie Marge's present, see, it's here under this big one from Mommy and Daddy."

"All right, thirty-seven then," said Dudley, going red in the face.

Harry smirked slightly, as he saw a huge Dudley tantrum coming. Aunt Petunia obviously scented danger, too, because she said quickly, "And we'll buy you another two presents while we're out today. How's that, popkin? Two more presents. Is that all right'' Dudley thought for a moment. It looked like hard work.

Finally he said slowly, "So I'll have thirty ... thirty..."

"Thirty-nine, sweetums," said Aunt Petunia.

"Oh." Dudley sat down heavily and grabbed the nearest parcel. "All right then."

Uncle Vernon chuckled. "Little tyke wants his money's worth, just like his father. 'Atta boy, Dudley!" He ruffled Dudley's hair.

At that moment Harry, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia watched Dudley unwrap the racing bike, a video camera, a remote control airplane, sixteen new computer games, and a VCR. He was ripping the paper off a gold wristwatch.

After breakfast, the Dursleys left for the zoo with a warning for Harry not to destroy the house. They'd long trusted him enough to leave him alone at home while they took Dudley out for his birthdays.

Harry grinned happily at the thought of having the entire day to read and excercise...

_25 July 1991..._

Harry expertly fried the bacon in the pan. Dudley and Uncle Vernon came in, both with wrinkled noses because of the smell from Harry's new uniform. Uncle Vernon opened his newspaper as usual and Dudley banged his Smelting stick, which he carried everywhere, on the table.

Aunt Petunia had brought Dudley out to London to buy his new Smeltings uniform. That evening, Dudley paraded around the living room for the family in his brand-new uniform. Smeltings' boys wore maroon tailcoats, orange knickerbockers, and flat straw hats called boaters. They also carried knobbly sticks, used for hitting each other while the teachers weren't looking. This was supposed to be good training for later life.

As he looked at Dudley in his new knickerbockers, Uncle Vernon said gruffly that it was the proudest moment of his life. Aunt Petunia burst into tears and said she couldn't believe it was her Ickle Dudleykins, he looked so handsome and grown-up. Harry didn't trust himself to speak. He thought two of his ribs might already have cracked from trying not to laugh.

There was a horrible smell in the kitchen the next morning when Harry went in to prepare breakfast. It seemed to be coming from a large metal tub in the sink. He went to have a look. The tub was full of what looked like dirty rags swimming in gray water.

"What's this?" he asked Aunt Petunia. Her lips tightened as they always did if he dared to ask a question.

"Your new school uniform," she said.

Harry looked in the bowl again.

"Oh," he said, "I didn't realize it had to be so wet."

"Don't be stupid," snapped Aunt Petunia. "I'm dyeing some of Dudley's old things gray for you. It'll look just like everyone else's when I've finished."

Harry seriously doubted this, but thought it best not to argue. He sat down at the table and tried not to think about how he was going to look on his first day at Stonewall High - like he was wearing bits of old elephant skin, probably.

They heard the click of the mail slot and flop of letters on the doormat.

"Get the mail, Dudley," said Uncle Vernon from behind his paper.

"Make Harry get it."

"Get the mail, Harry."

"Make Dudley get it."

"Poke him with your Smelting stick, Dudley."

Harry dodged the Smelting stick and went to get the mail. Three things lay on the doormat: a postcard from Uncle Vernon's sister Marge, who was vacationing on the Isle of Wight, and the last one caught his eye.

It was addressed to _him._

Harry picked it up and stared at it curiously, his heart twanging like a giant elastic band. No one, ever, in his whole life, had written to him. Who would? He had no friends, no other relatives.

Yet here it was, a letter, addressed so plainly there could be no mistake:

**Mr. H. Potter**

**The Cupboard under the Stairs**

**4 Privet Drive**

**Little Whinging**

**Surrey**

The envelope was thick and heavy, made of yellowish parchment, and the address was written in emerald-green ink. There was no stamp.

Turning the envelope over, Harry saw a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large letter H.

"Hurry up, boy!" shouted Uncle Vernon from the kitchen. "What are you doing, checking for letter bombs?" He chuckled at his own joke.

Harry tucked the letter into the pocket of the rather large pair of trousers that Dudley had outgrown long ago and went back to the kitchen, deciding to read his letter afterwards when he was alone.

He handed Uncle Vernon the bill and the postcard and sat down, wondering what might have been in the strange yellow envelope...

**A/N: Well, that's the first chapter of Revelations. I hoped you liked or enjoyed it. Please feel free to tell me where you guys think I need to make an amendment. I will read through any critics, good or bad. But it's not definite that I change the story accordingly. Do try to phrase any flames as politely as you possibly can. This story may seem like a cliche... So, if you have any interesting ideas, do tell me.**

**Coming up, next chapter, is the guaranteed Gringotts visit and shopping spree! Heehee, I always loved those...**

**Review please! :)**

**Au revoir**


End file.
